Tess Gerritsen's Rizzoli & Isles 8-Book Bundle

by Tess Gerritsen

  “What does all that mean?” asked Frost.

  “It says that they had children,” said Edwina. “That’s the one place in the Bible where these children are mentioned. These offspring resulted from matings between humans and angels. They were a mixed race of demons called the Nephilim.”

  “Also known as the Watchers,” said Sansone.

  “You’ll find references to them in other sources that predate the Bible. In the Book of Enoch. In the Book of Jubilees. They’re described as monsters, spawned by fallen angels who had intercourse with human women. The result was a secret race of hybrids that supposedly still walks among us. These creatures are said to have unusual charm and talent, unusual beauty. Often very tall, very charismatic. But they’re demons nonetheless, and they serve the darkness.”

  “You people actually believe this?” asked Jane.

  “I’m just telling you what’s in holy writings, Detective. The ancients believed mankind was not alone on this earth, that others came before us and that some people today still carry the bloodline of those monsters.”

  “But you called them the children of angels.”

  “Fallen angels. Flawed and evil.”

  “So these things, these Watchers, are like mutants,” said Frost, “hybrids.”

  Edwina looked at him. “A subspecies. Violent and predatory. The rest of us are merely prey.”

  “It’s written that when Armageddon arrives,” said Oliver, “when the world as we know it ends, the Antichrist himself will be one of the Nephilim. A Watcher.”

  And their mark is on my door. Maura stared at the sketch of the goat’s head. Was that symbol intended as a warning?

  Or an invitation?

  “Well,” said Jane, and she looked pointedly at her watch. “This has been a really valuable use of our time.”

  “You still don’t see the significance, do you?” said Sansone.

  “It makes for a great story around the campfire, but it doesn’t get me any closer to our killer.”

  “It gets you into his head. It tells us what he believes.”

  “Angels and goat demons. Right. Or maybe our perp just likes to play head games with cops. So he makes us waste our time chasing after ocher and seashells.” Jane rose to her feet. “The crime scene unit should be here any minute. Maybe you people could all go home now, so we can do our jobs.”

  “Wait,” Sansone cut in. “What was that you just said about seashells?”

  Jane ignored him and looked at Frost. “Can you call CSU and find out what’s taking them so long?”

  “Detective Rizzoli,” said Sansone, “tell us about the seashells.”

  “You seem to have your own sources. Why don’t you ask them?”

  “This could be very important. Why don’t you just save us the effort and tell us?”

  “First, you tell me. What’s the significance of a seashell?”

  “What kind of shell? A bivalve, a cone?”

  “Does it make a difference?”

  “Yes.”

  Jane paused. “It’s sort of a spiral. A cone, I guess.”

  “It was left at a death scene?”

  “You might say that.”

  “Describe the shell.”

  “Look, there’s nothing special about it. The guy I spoke to says it’s a common species found all over the Mediterranean.” She paused as her cell phone rang. “Excuse me,” she said, and walked out of the room. For a moment no one said anything. The three members of the Mephisto Foundation looked at one another.

  “Well,” Edwina said softly, “I’d say this just about clinches it.”

  “Clinches what?” said Frost.

  “The seashell,” said Oliver, “is on Anthony’s family crest.”

  Sansone rose from his chair and crossed to the window. There he stood gazing out at the street, his broad back framed in black by the window. “The symbols were drawn in red ocher, mined from Cyprus,” he said. “Do you know the significance of that, Detective Frost?”

  “We have no idea,” Frost admitted.

  “This killer isn’t playing games with the police. He’s playing games with me. With the Mephisto Foundation.” He turned to face them, but the morning glare made his expression impossible to read. “On Christmas Eve, he kills a woman and leaves satanic symbols at the scene—the candles, the ocher circle. But the single most significant thing he does that night is place a phone call to Joyce O’Donnell, a member of our foundation. That was the tug on our sleeve. It was meant to get our attention.”

  “Your attention? It seems to me this has always been about O’Donnell.”

  “Then Eve Kassovitz was killed in my garden. On a night we were meeting.”

  “It’s also the night O’Donnell was your dinner guest. She was the one he stalked, the one he had his eye on.”

  “I would have agreed with you last night. All the signs, up till then, pointed to Joyce as the target. But these symbols on Maura’s door tell us the killer hasn’t completed his work. He’s still hunting.”

  “He knows about us, Anthony,” said Edwina. “He’s cutting down our circle. Joyce was the first. The question is, who’s next?”

  Sansone looked at Maura. “I’m afraid he thinks you’re one of us.”

  “But I’m not,” she said. “I don’t want anything to do with your group delusion.”

  “Doc?” said Jane. Maura had not heard her come back into the room. Jane was standing in the doorway, holding her cell phone. “Can you come into the kitchen? We need to talk in private.”

  Maura rose and followed her up the hallway. “What is it?” she asked as they stepped into the kitchen.

  “Could you arrange to take the day off tomorrow? Because you and I need to go out of town tonight. I’m going home to pack an overnight bag. I’ll be back to pick you up around noon.”

  “Are you telling me I should run and hide? Just because someone’s written on my door?”

  “This has nothing to do with your door. I just got a call from a cop out in upstate New York. Last night they found a woman’s body. It’s clearly a homicide.”

  “Why should a murder in New York concern us?”

  “She’s missing her left hand.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  August 8. Phase of the moon: Last Quarter.

  Every day, Teddy goes down to the lake.

  In the morning, I hear the squeal and slap of the screen door, and then I hear his shoes thump down the porch steps. From my window, I watch him walk from the house and head down toward the water, fishing pole propped on his thin shoulder, tackle box in hand. It is a strange ritual, and useless, I think, because he never brings back any fruits of his labor. Every afternoon, he returns empty-handed but cheerful.

  Today, I follow him.

  He does not see me as he rambles through the woods toward the water. I stay far enough behind him so that he can’t hear my footsteps. He is singing anyway, in his high and childish voice, an off-key version of the “Kookaburra” song, and is oblivious to the fact he is being watched. He reaches the water’s edge, baits his hook, and throws in his line. As the minutes pass, he settles onto the grassy bank and gazes across water so calm that not even a whisper of wind ruffles the mirrored surface.

  The fishing pole gives a twitch.

  I move closer as Teddy reels in his catch. It is a brownish fish and it writhes on the line, every muscle twitching in mortal terror. I wait for the fatal blow, for that sacred instant in time when the divine spark flickers out. But to my surprise, Teddy grasps his catch, pulls the hook from its mouth, and gently lowers the fish back into the water. He crouches close, murmuring to it, as though in apology for having inconvenienced its morning.

  “Why didn’t you keep it?” I ask.

  Teddy jerks straight, startled by my voice. “Oh,” he says. “It’s you.”

  “You let it go.”

  “I don’t like to kill them. It’s only a bass, anyway.”

  “So you throw them all back?”

&nbs
p; “Uh-huh.” Teddy baits his hook again and casts it into the water.

  “What’s the point of catching them, then?”

  “It’s fun. It’s like a game between us. Me and the fish.”

  I sit down beside him on the bank. Gnats buzz around our heads and Teddy waves them away. He has just turned eleven years old, but he still has a child’s perfectly smooth skin, and the golden baby fuzz on his face catches the sun’s glint. I am close enough to hear his breathing, to see the pulse throb in his slender neck. He does not seem bothered by my presence; in fact, he gives me a shy smile, as though this is a special treat, sharing the lazy morning with his older cousin.

  “You want to try?” he says, offering me the pole.

  I take it. But my attention remains on Teddy, on the fine sheen of perspiration on his forehead, on the shadows cast by his eyelashes.

  The pole gives a tug.

  “You’ve got one!”

  I begin to reel it in, and the fish’s struggles make my hands sweat in anticipation. I can feel its thrashings, its desperation to live, transmitted through the pole. At last it breaks the water, its tail flapping as I swing it over the bank. I grab hold of slimy scales.

  “Now take out the hook,” says Teddy. “But be careful not to hurt him.”

  I look into the open tackle box and see a knife.

  “He can’t breathe out of water. Hurry.” Teddy urges me.

  I think about reaching for the knife, about holding the wriggling fish down against the grass and piercing it behind the gills. About slitting it open, all the way down the belly. I want to feel the fish give a last twitch, want to feel its life force leap directly into me in a bracing jolt—the same jolt I felt when I was ten years old and took the oath of Herem. When my mother at last brought me into the circle and handed me the knife. “You have reached the age,” she said. “It’s time to be one of us.” I think of the sacrificial goat’s final shudder, and I remember the pride in my mother’s eyes and the murmurs of approval from the circle of robed men. I want to feel that thrill again.

  A fish will not do.

  I remove the hook and drop the wriggling bass back into the lake. It gives a splash of its tail and darts away. The whisper of a breeze ruffles the water and dragonflies tremble on the reeds. I turn to Teddy.

  And he says, “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Forty-two Euros in tips—not a bad haul for a chilly Sunday in December. As Lily waved good-bye to the tour group whom she’d just shepherded through the Roman Forum, she felt an icy raindrop fleck her face. She looked up at dark clouds hanging ominously low and she shivered. Tomorrow she’d certainly need a raincoat.

  With that fresh roll of cash in her pocket, she headed for the favorite shopping venue of every penny-pinching student in Rome: the Porta Portese flea market in Trastevere. It was already one P.M., and the dealers would be closing down their stalls, but she might have time to pick up a bargain. By the time she reached the market, a fine drizzle was falling. The Piazza di Porta Portese echoed with the clatter of crates being packed up. She wasted no time snatching up a used wool sweater for only three Euros. It reeked of cigarette smoke, but a good washing would remedy that. She paid another two Euros for a hooded slicker that was marred only by a single streak of black grease. Now dressed warmly in her new purchases, and with money still in her pocket, she indulged in the luxury of browsing.

  She wandered down the narrow passage between stalls, pausing to pick through buckets of costume jewelry and fake Roman coins, and continued toward Piazza Ippolito Nievo and the antiques stalls. Every Sunday, it seemed, she always ended up in this section of the market, because it was the old things, the ancient things, that truly interested her. A scrap of medieval tapestry or a mere chip of bronze could make her heart pound faster. By the time she reached the antiques area, most of the dealers were already carting away their merchandise, and she saw only a few stands still open, their wares exposed to the drizzle. She wandered past the meager offerings, past weary, glum-faced sellers, and was about to leave the piazza when her gaze fell on a small wooden box. She halted, staring.

  Three reverse crosses were carved into the top.

  Her mist-dampened face suddenly felt encased in ice. Then she noticed that the hinge was facing toward her, and with a sheepish laugh, she rotated the box to its proper orientation. The crosses turned right-side up. When you looked too hard for evil, you saw it everywhere. Even when it’s not there.

  “You are looking for religious items?” the dealer asked in Italian.

  She glanced up to see the man’s wrinkled face, his eyes almost lost in folds of skin. “I’m just browsing, thank you.”

  “Here. There’s more.” He slid a box in front of her, and she saw tangled rosary beads and a wooden carving of the Madonna and old books, their pages curling in the dampness. “Look, look! Take your time.”

  At first glance, she saw nothing in that box that interested her. Then she focused on the spine of one of the books. The title was stamped on the leather in gold: The Book of Enoch.

  She picked it up and opened it to the copyright page. It was the English translation by R. H. Charles, a 1912 edition printed by Oxford University Press. Two years ago, in a Paris museum, she had viewed a centuries-old scrap of the Ethiopic version. The Book of Enoch was an ancient text, part of the apocryphal literature.

  “It is very old,” said the dealer.

  “Yes,” she murmured, “it is.”

  “It says 1912.”

  And these words are even older, she thought, as she ran her fingers across the yellowed pages. This text predated the birth of Christ by two hundred years. These were stories from an era before Noah and his ark, before Methusaleh. She flipped through the pages and paused at one passage that had been underlined in ink.

  Evil spirits have proceeded from their bodies, because they are born from men, and from the holy Watchers is their beginning and primal origin; they shall be evil spirits on earth, and evil spirits shall they be called.

  “I have many more of his things,” said the dealer.

  She looked up. “Whose?”

  “The man who owned that book. This is all his.” He waved at the boxes. “He died last month, and now everything must be sold. If you are interested in such items, I have another one just like it.” He bent down to dig through another box and came up with a slim leather-bound book, its cover battered and stained. “The same author,” he said. “R. H. Charles.”

  Not the same author, she thought, but the same translator. It was a 1913 edition of The Book of Jubilees, yet another holy text that predated the Christian era. Although she was familiar with the title Jubilees, she had never read this particular book. She lifted the cover, and the pages fell open to chapter ten, verse five, a passage that was also underlined in ink:

  And thou knowest how thy Watchers, the fathers of these spirits, acted in my day: and as for these spirits which are living, imprison them and hold them fast in the place of condemnation, and let them not bring destruction on the sons of thy servant, my God; for these are malignant, and created in order to destroy.

  In the margin, scrawled in the same ink, were the words: The sons of Seth. The daughters of Cain.

  Lily closed the book and suddenly noticed the brown stains on the leather cover. Blood?

  “Would you like to buy it?”

  She looked up. “What happened to this man? The one who owned these books?”

  “I told you. He died.”

  “How?”

  A shrug. “He lived alone. He was very old, very strange. They found him locked inside his apartment, with all these books piled up against the door. So he couldn’t even get out. Crazy, eh?”

  Or terrified, she thought, of what might get in.

  “I’ll give you a good price. Do you want it?”

  She stared at the second book, thinking of its owner, lying dead and barricaded in his cluttered apartment, and she could almost smell the scent of
decaying flesh wafting up from the pages. Repulsed though she was by the stains on the leather, she wanted this book. She wanted to know why the owner had scrawled those words in the margins and whether he had written anything else.

  “Five Euros,” the dealer said.

  For once, she did not dicker, but simply paid the asking price and walked away with the book.

  It was raining hard by the time she climbed the dank stairwell to her flat. All afternoon it rained as she sat reading by the gray and watery light through her window. She read about Seth. The third son of Adam, Seth begat Enos, who begat Kenan. It was the same lofty bloodline from which later sprang the patriarchs Jared and Enoch, Methuselah and Noah. But from this very bloodline also sprang corrupted sons, wicked sons, who mated with the daughters of a murderous ancestor.

  The daughters of Cain.

  Lily stopped at another underlined passage, the words long ago marked by the man whose ghostly presence now seemed to hover at her shoulder, anxious to share his secrets, to whisper his warnings.

  And lawlessness increased on the earth and all flesh corrupted its way, alike men and cattle and beasts and birds and everything that walks on the earth, all of them corrupted their ways and their orders, and they began to devour each other, and lawlessness increased on the earth and every imagination of the thoughts of all men was thus evil continually.

  Daylight was fading. She had been sitting for so long, she’d lost all feeling in her limbs. Outside, rain continued to tap at the window, and on the streets of Rome, traffic rumbled and honked. But here, in her room, she sat in numb silence. A century before Christ, before the Apostles, these words were already old, written about a terror so ancient that today mankind no longer remembered it, no longer marked its presence.

  She looked down, once again, at The Book of Jubilees, at the ominous words of Noah, spoken to his sons: